


Do The Blue Danube Waltz

by hopelesswanderlust



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Endgame, M/M, Violinist!Sherlock, bombspecialist!John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-08-15
Packaged: 2017-12-04 19:30:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopelesswanderlust/pseuds/hopelesswanderlust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock plays the violin. John makes C4 explosives. They live in a warehouse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The stirrings of violin strings came to life under the virtuoso's fingers, the last of the song going out with a bang rather than a whimper.

"Well done,Sherlock!" John applauded, much like any person would applaud in the face of such talent. He couldn't relate, he had completely duped the mandatory recorder lessons in class.

Mrs. Hudson cheered from where she sat on the crate, her eyes warm. "As much as I love dinner and a show, I didn't cook for nothing! Let's eat it before it gets cold, it's already freezing in here!"

Mrs.Hudson punctuated her point with a thinly veiled shiver, clutching the yellow plastic bag closer to her to leech it's warmth. "John, could you be a dearie and pull out the table?"

"Will do," he hopped off a neighboring crate, disappearing into the shadows. He resurfaced a minute later, dragging the dining table into sight. Sherlock prepared to put the violin away before abruptly turning, Johann Strauss sounding from under his fingers.

"Oh! I _love_ that one!" she clasped her hands together in delight. 

"Don't encourage him Mrs. Hudson, he found this piece last week and now he won't leave it alone." John huffed, hefting the Victorian chair above his head. He waited until her head was turned and kicked a mess of wires away, shooting the musician a meaningful look. It wouldn't do very well to tarnish the reputation they had with their former landlady, who was kind enough to not question their current living conditions. 

'Does that mean you're playing at Molly's, tonight?"

"Yes, and yes." he drawled, pulling out a chair for the older woman, being the gentleman he was. A thought that she happened to share out loud.

John snickered, as if told a very funny joke. " Sherlock? A gentleman? I assure you, he is the furthest thing from a gentleman as there can be in the twenty-first century.

"Well, that's a bit rude, isn't it?"

"I don't claim to apologize for the stupidity of others, Mrs. Hudson."

_"Sherlock!"_

_  
_"Pulling up chairs for elder women, a concert musician playing for free? What's next, saving drowning kittens?"

"Shut up!" Sherlock bristled irritably, lighting up when he peeked at the Tupperware. "Angelou's?"

"He wanted to thank you for getting him off of that murder charge, he left your favorite." The Alfredo looked divine, his mouth watering at the sight of it. 

"Anything for me?"

"Just something I can't pronounce that you liked from last time-wasn't there a story from the first time the both of you went there?"

Sherlock frowned at the memory. "I tried to get us a free dinner by pretending it was a date. John wanted to consistently destroy the illusion at every turn."

John's eyes rolled as the familiar memory resurfaced. "I'm an honest man, I am."

"You're as honest as my socks, John."

"You're not wearing any."

"My point exactly."

John stared blankly at him. The color rises in Sherlock's cheeks. "I'll admit, not my best."

"Far from your best," he sighed heavily. "It doesn't even reach the top 56."

"56? That many?" Mrs. Hudson parroted with wide eyed confusion.

"Let's just say, _'You lower the IQ of the whole street, Anderson._ ' is one of them." 

"Sherlock!" she sounded absolutely scandalized, but she was just playing it up. "Did I not raise you with any manners?"

"You didn't raise me at all," he said, not taking the bait after the embarrassment with the sock debacle. An experience he was only too willing to delete. '

"Cruel words," John sniffed dramatically. "How will she ever recover?"

"With gin, of course."

 


	2. Chapter 2

"Glad you could make it!" Molly beamed, offering her cheek to Sherlock.

He hesitantly planted a kiss to her skin and rolled his eyes at John over her shoulder. He tried to give his best disapproving look but Molly turned to him.

"Glad you invited us." he leaned into kiss her cheek but she leaned away subtly and stuck out her hand instead. Hm.

At this point, John was only too used to being second to Sherlock. The rejection didn't sting as much as it could have.

"Right this way," she navigated them through the throng of party go-ers, which mostly just consisted of done up teenage mothers sipping champagne, and the youth secretively pouring liquor into empty soda cans. John kept quiet as they were led to the makeshift back room, cleverly titled 'For Sherlock' on the outside. Sherlock tried not to look too unimpressed and thanked Molly quietly.

"I'll just practice in here, thanks again for this opportunity."

"Anything for you, Sherlock." Molly's glee so blatantly obvious it was physically paining him to see. She curtsied and scurried off into the crowd, probably to be a better hostess.

"Well I'll just go find Mrs.Hudson-"

"Stay."

He quirked an inquisitive brow at the musician's insistence. "No offence, but I've heard you do this song to death."

"Oh, I wasn't planning to practice-as you so kindly put it-I just don't want to have to... _socialize."_ he said it like a dirty word, face scrunching up in distaste.

John couldn't help it, a laugh escaped him. "You picked a party to chose to not socialize?"

The tip of Sherlock's ears reddened at the fondness in his tone. "Well, it was a favor to Molly..."

"But you never do favors for anyone."

"..."

"Sherlock?"

"You-" the bomb specialist's eyes widened and then narrowed in realization. "You tried to convince her to get my job back, didn't you?"

"John-"

"I'm not going back there, you know that."

Sherlock was rushing now, brilliant green eyes darting in every which way. "The tremor-it's almost gone. You can go back to work, you don't have to-" the violinist suddenly cut himself off, noticing he said too much.

The pause left the air sour and stagnant.

"Have to what, live in a warehouse? Worry about my enemies?" he laughed bitterly, the fondness was all gone now, replaced with cold indifference. "It doesn't matter when I leave the business-the enemies are always going to be there. If there were any way I could have chosen a route where we could be safer-where I could keep you safer, I would. If you want to leave, I'm sure Mycroft can-"

"No." Sherlock straightened to his full height, the menacing dark glare twisting his expression into an even angrier one.

"But-"

"No! Why don't you understand?" he abruptly turned away and tugged so hard on his air that John swore it would come out. "If I were a lesser man, I would have left long ago! Can't you see I only want you to be safe."

John was dumbfounded. "Me?"

Sherlock graced him once more with his attention, but to his heartbreak there were already angry tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. "Yes, you!"

"But...why?"

"Because," exasperated now, he tugged John to him by his upper arms and engulfed him into an almost bone shattering hug. Oh. Hugging wasn't usually a Holmes specialty. "I can't go back on living, if I know that you aren't going to be here in the morning.:

"Sherlock," John found himself blinking back tears of his own. 

"Sh," the Holmes shushed him, holding on to him tighter. John was in the process of lifting his limp arms to return the gesture-

"Holmes!" the door banged open, the familiar timbre of Lestrade filling John's ears. Sherlock jerked away from him as if burned and planted himself in a chair facing the wall.

"An unexpected visit," Sherlock's voice resembled nothing like the almost frustrated sob he had been trying to contain a minute ago. "May I assume that the lack of a date means your wife decided to spend the weekend with the PE teacher."

"Ha, bloody ha." but John could tell from his viewpoint that Sherlock was right. There was a noticeable tan line around his ring finger. "Nervous?"

Strange question to ask a concert violinist. Sherlock snorted in response. "Only amateurs get nervous."

"Then you won't mind if I borrow John? Stamford wanted to see him."

There was a second hesitation before he nodded his head with his back turned. John was pretty sure the detective inspector noticed it too. 

John warily turned his back, refusing the urge to turn his head and ensure that Sherlock was really alright. Lestrade put a friendly arm around his back and filled his head with meaningless chatter.

It occurred to John how selfish he was being. It was not everyday that a bomb specialist met a violinist, and if anyone asked (he always changed his profession to military when asked, certainly not a lie) they always reacted the same way.

"How did you meet Sherlock Holmes?"

It had been a very interesting day indeed.

John didn't bother wondering why several telephone booths had all started to ring simultaneously, or why several CCTV cameras started to perk in interest whenever he walked by. He was paranoid by nature, and without hesitation he picked up the phone. "Hello?"

"Good evening Mr.Watson," an older man with a bit of an oily voice answered. "I'll be sending a car for you to Nottingham place. I assume you know where it is?"

"Why wouldn't I?' his mouth twitched "I'm coincidentally on it right now."

"Good, then you'll be happy to enter the vehicle on your left."

Just in time, a long black car cruised into place, a woman beckoning to sit next to her.

He almost thought he handled the exchange very well considering, until the place he was brought to, clearly a gentleman's club for older men-pulled the wool over his eyes.

Not so metaphorically, since he was literally gagged and drugged away from the face of a reddening man he had been questioning.

When he woke up, he was sat at an armchair, surrounded by a ring of men in suits. He cleared his throat and tried to not draw attention to wiping the drool away from the corner of his mouth. "So, am I going to be informed as to the nature of this meeting?"

The brunette to his left smiled, tapping his umbrella to the table, as if to commence the meeting. "I have heard many great things about you, Watson. Those who sacrifice themselves for their country are truly worthy of respect." he recognized the voice from the phone.

"I heard you have been in charge of our arms department,"

"Bombs, to be more precise."

The brunette's smile widened at the correction. "Yes, bombs-"

He didn't pay much attention to the brunette, seeing as it seemed like he wasn't going to get any more direct until the end. His attention was captured by a man, slouched so far on his seat he was basically lying on it, his abnormally long legs rested on the coffee table across from him. He was attractive, maybe in an unconventional way, and looked so out of place. While the suited men were all in varying degrees of old, this man was fresh faced, with dark curls and bright green eyes. He too wore a seat, but a long dark jacket had been thrown over it, even though it wasn't very cold outside. His face unabashedly wore an expression of boredom, fingers steepled below his chin, where their eyes crossed. "Afghanistan, or Iraq?"

He didn't find the remark too unsettling, after all he had just been borderline kidnapped and coerced into this meeting from off the street.

How wrong he had been.

"You've been invalided home from Afghanistan. You've got a brother worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic quite correctly, I'm afraid. That's enought to be going on with, don't you think?"

That was hardly the last of the onslaught of deductions.

"Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp's bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand. Like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, suntan - Afghanistan or Iraq."

He barely held in a gasp of surprise. "That's-amazing."

"Really?"

"Of course it is!"

"That's now what they usually say."

"What do they usually say?"

"Piss off."

Later, he had talked to Mycroft (the brunette had introduced himself later) after the curly haired mystery had spring up mid meeting and flew out of the room as if it were not a usual thing. He had never caught his name at the first meeting.

"He has the brain of a scientist or a philosopher, yet he chose to go in the opposite direction."

"And what direction was that?"

"He's a musician."


	3. Chapter 3

The violinist stared at him blankly. "What?"

"Oh, _John!_ This is a big deal for you! I hope you do well." John mocked in a gross imitation of Sherlock's deep tenor.

"It's a meeting, not an award ceremony."

John glared, Sherlock sighed.

"Fine," the virtuoso came over to him, uncharacteristically straightening the tie looped around his neck. "Best of luck, Watson."

John left with a lighter heart, something about the words making him tolerate the long strategy meeting. Mycroft didn't even try to hide the knowing look he wore behind the hand covering his mouth.

\-------

When he got back, he saw a half eaten container of bolognese resting on the crate. John felt worry pull at his chest. It was clearly from Angelou's, and they had been instructed to stay away from Baker Street. Even more worrying, the musician barely ate.

He picked up the take-out box and a note fluttered to the ground.

_At Baker St. Come at once if convenient_

He flipped it over.

_If convenient, come anyways_.

He swore to himself. These were the tell-tale signs of 'good news' with Sherlock, which was never of any news that would be good to anyone.

His foresight brought him to the blown out second floor of their former apartment, with a half filled revolver, a haggard Mrs. Hudson and an ecstatic Sherlock in her wake.

"Oh, it's Christmas! " the former detective swooned in place, his grey-green eyes far away as they scanned the damage of 221B.

"We have a nemesis! "


	4. Chapter 4

The edges of his vision are softened, carry a nostalgic feel. At once, he knows he is dreaming, but his dreaming self opens his eyes and stares.

Bright eyes twinkle at him, the cupid bow of his lips quirk into a soft smirk. The rest of him is long and slightly tanner than usual, a feat that his mind conjures that result from the rays of sunshine streaming in from John's former bedroom at 221B.

His heart hammers in his chest at the slow, sleepy smirk and naked chest. He doesn't dare let his eyes wander further. He feels, more than sees the bare thighs pressed against his own. The painful thudding of his heart against his ribs feels so real, even though he is more than positive that this is a dream. It feels so painstakingly real, as the slightly calloused fingers brush against the side of his face. It is unbearably tender and his chest aches even further for something that he cannot name.

_John._

His eyes open again against their own accord, and the dank scents and ever present chill around him remind him that he is, without a doubt back in the warehouse. The only outlier being the warm presence pressed into his back. He chances a half-awake glance and startles to alertness at the naked man nestled into the other side of John's pillow.

"Mr. Holmes!" he all but yells, but judging by the deep wrinkle that manifests between Sherlock's brows, it was a weak effort.

_"...whuuut?"_ he whispers hoarse from disuse in the morning that sounds the slightest bit wet. It seems like the Holmes was going to catch the tail end of the virus going around. He would have to ask Mrs. Hudson to entertain him for a few hours.

He then took notice that not only was Sherlock warm, he was blistering.

"You need, " he sighed to himself, exhausted. "a doctor."

"But that's what I have you for, " the musician slurred, although not coherent enough to retort in a more creative way.

John attempted to channel a statue of an angel he once saw, tilting his head up to the sky, arms up for absolution with the single prayer of 'so _help me_ God, ' permeating his thoughts.


	5. Chapter 5

It had been fairly stated enough times, more than heavily implied that Sherlock had done some work for the Met.  
  
After the near spot-on deduction at their first meeting, it wasn't hard to guess why they kept him around.  
  
Everyone stonewalled any questions he had about his past,  and even Lestrade,  who Sherlock claimed to find 'tolerable' even on his best days, had muttered a sympathetic "You really don't want to know, mate."  
  
Which he respected, but John was a little ticked off as Sherlock's only proclaimed 'friend,'  that he deserved to know,  especially when the musician had up and moved with him to the warehouse.  
  
The warehouse wasn't ideal,  but neither was a safe house.  Sherlock had stayed bull-headed about him not leaving the flat when the first hint of danger had approached them when they had received a parcel containing the exact bomb he had detonated from Afghanistan,  with a memo signed _'from Kabul,  with love. '_  
  
John had the best security there was.

Himself.  

Factoring in Mycroft's little empire was a dangerous combination,  but he had no explanation for why he set his sights on the old sweets factory, that held no future plans of being demolished,  last he heard. 

Or why Sherlock even came with him.  
  
These thoughts entertained him,  distantly aware of the sound of the shower head sputtering to a stop,  and the presence of a warm, damp fog clouding the air. It was all very spacious,  but there weren't many walls save for the employee break room that had seen better days.  
  
He was also distantly aware that he was sitting on a dove grey suit.  
  
The air changed,  he turned his head and did a spit take at the blank look Sherlock wore,  curls tapered down against his forehead with water making him all the more a vision of a drowned kitten. An extremely tall,  borderline sociopath kitten,  that was.  
  
In his dream,  due to lack of information of Sherlock's body, he hadn't imagined the collection of tiny raised scars,  the chest dotted with a constellation of freckles, and light chest hair. This Sherlock was frighteningly pale but not unhealthy, skinny, but limber. He pondered about the parallels that he had drawn in his mind.  
  
"As flattering as I find your staring, " he drawled "I do need to get dressed."  
  
John felt humiliation paint his reddening face, likened its hue to a tomato.  
  
"Oh! Yes, yes my apologies." he scrambled away at the brow cocked at him,  willing his blush to die down,  absent minded for a different reason.  
  
It wasn't until he found himself in the junkyard,  that it crossed his mind that the musician may have flirted with him.


	6. Chapter 6

John had to wonder if a sexual identity crisis was really what he needed at the time. Sure, Sherlock and he had a few passionate embraces once in a while, but he had amounted it to being pushed together at the threat of danger. He all of people had learned that lesson the hard way from the army, of never taking your relationships for granted.

He had to consider if all of those suspicions everyone had about the both of them being gay had a grain of truth to them.

The solider mentally slapped himself, no matter what crisis he was having, it had nothing to do with Sherlock. 

He re-evaluated the evidence in his mind. He was not a close minded person at all, but relationships had just never seemed worth their weight to him. Friends came far and few in between since he had been invalidated, and the genius had come to him like a drop of water in the desert. A part of him stepped back and wondered if he was pinning his affections on Sherlock because it justified how much he really used the musician. He grimaced at the thought, staring down at the wires between his hands as if they held all the answers. "No, of course not."

"What?"

John flushed, he had forgot that Sherlock was still in earshot. "Oh, just this wiring."

The musician lolled his head to the side, his stare piercing. He did not look like he believed a word John had said, but unable to read it from his face, he let it go. "Right." The former detective returned to Suskind, with such a deep look of attentiveness that he chose to ignore that he was reading about a serial killer that turned women into perfume.


End file.
